A Call To arms
by NotOldJustNotYoung
Summary: A revolutionary looks at certain aspects of the Zelda timeline which might shock the unprepared Zelda theorist. Containing the Happy Mask Salesman
1. Chapter 1

The man closed the shutters of the windows, and did the latch on the door. It looked to be a bad night; already a gale was blowing. He began to ascend the stairs, pausing only to look at a small, clay instrument in a glass case. For a moment, he drummed a rhythmic tattoo on the surface.

There was a knock on the door.

The man stiffened. A monster would know by reputation to steer clear of the house, while a devil would not observe the niceties of knocking. He was miles from the nearest village, and he seldom had visitors.

This left…nobody.

He went back to the door, and undid the latch. The visitor was tall but bowed slightly, with startlingly vivid brown hair. He wore purple clothes, with yellow shoes that came to a tip. He was smiling, with an eerie, almost frightening grin. On his back was an absurdly large pack, with various masks bulging from the sides.

"Hello," said the Happy Mask Salesman.

The man took several steps back and sat down, wincing as he did so. He looked at the figure questionably.

"I expect," said the Salesman, "You are wondering why I am here, and what I want."

The man, voice rusted through years of silence, croaked "Yes." There was a pause, as he analysed the visitor's unchanged appearance. Then: "Just how old are you?"

"Old enough." He started to walk around the room, examining its contents. "I see you have kept your old equipment?"

"Keepsakes. Each one a memory, wrapped in fond nostalgia. That is all."

"And yet your sword is freshly polished and sharpened. Your quiver is full, each arrow hand-made. You even have a small collection of explosives. You wish for action, friend, you yearn to relive your old adventures. Is this not true?"

"Perhaps."

"More than perhaps."

"And what of you?" the man returned, suddenly angry. "You disappear for decades, and then reappear, as if you have just walked off a page in a book, completely unchanged. Perhaps I do cultivate a desire for the old ways, but it is surely allowable. Maybe I do fantasize what it would have been like if I took different decisions, but that part of my life is over now. Finished with. Done."

He slammed his fist on the table at the last word, and a small cup fell over, spilling its contents. The Salesman reclined, examining the man with eyes barely open.

"I believe that that is not quite as final as you appreciate. They say you can never cross the same river twice, but that is why the bridge was invented."

"What are you suggesting?"

"I am suggesting, or rather offering, you another chance. Adventure. Travel. The old ways, renewed. A chance to save Hyrule. Again."

"I want more details."

"Very well. Are you aware of an entity calling himself the Iron Lord?"

The words seemed to have a slight echo.

"No."

"I see. He is a mysterious figure; no-one has seen his entire face, but he delights in wreaking havoc in the land, sending his assorted minions into towns and slaughtering the folk. He plots to become a decidable threat."

"And how does this concern me?"

"Destiny, I should think, was –"

"No!" he shouted, genuinely angry. "Are we cursed to relive the same endless cycle, never stopping? The petty _deus ex machina_ of the heroic saviour? The warrior with a thousand faces? People preying on the Goddesses, on the Triforce, on anything to save them? Apocalypses come and go, but nothing changes." He said this last phrase with tears in his eyes, staring furiously at the woody grain of the table.

He did not see the Happy Mask Salesman leave.

The man slept restlessly that night, waiting for the dawn to arrive. For some reason, his sword had been leant against the window.


	2. Memories

The sun's first rays peeked in between the moth-eaten curtains, stirring the occupant of the bed into semi-consciousness. Birds warbled a tweeting lament, greeting the dawn, as if they were choirboys introducing the reverend in song. The air was crisp and clean and bitingly cold, a plain page for the new day. It was a lawn of snow without a single footprint; a coat hanging on the hook, unworn.

The occupier of the bed rolled out of it, blinking furiously, and tried to discern whether the visit last night had been a hallucination. He'd had a lot of them recently- images of pale, dead things with hanging jaws and claw-like hands- but they always had a translucent, dreamlike quality that had not been present in the conversation with the Happy Mask Salesman.

The man, acting on a sudden whim, opened the curtains and looked out on the Hylian landscape. A tree, branches scraping the glass slightly, rustled gently to itself. The dim silhouette of the Castle was could be seen on the horizon, although the blur of smoke rendered it partially invisible.

Smoke?

The man's mind briefly played out scenes of destruction- fire, spluttering from the wooden shutters of houses- babies, crying in their mother's arms- the great, marble edifice of Hyrule Castle tumbling down to the ground- animate corpses treading the cobbled streets.

He consoled himself that it was merely the meandering trails of campfires, left over from some midnight revels, and not a town going up in flames. He still did not feel altogether easy, however, and he went down the stairs with a heavy heart.

_The first feeling of the room was one of redness- a velvety redness that overwhelmed all of the surroundings. Even the furniture had that theme of scarlet materials, and the glow it cast gave the occupants a ruddy tinge._

_In the centre of the room was a throne, and this was the reddest of all. It overflowed, with tiny cherubs and cornucopias pouring off it. The man who sat on it was quite small, but his dangling feet were hidden by an ermine robe. He had a pointy nose and ears; vast, impressive sideburns extended across his cheeks and under his nose. His eyes were large and blinked rapidly, giving him a certain owlish appearance._

_A chair across the room was occupied by a stocky, blonde-haired man, who still had the wilfulness of childhood engrained onto his features. He too had a pointy nose and ears, and startling, bright blue eyes. His expression was a determined one; this could be guessed by observing the paraphernalia that hung around him. He was clearly expecting to have to fight on his journey._

_The man on the throne cleared his throat. "You must have come a long way, then, sir?"_

_The blonde-haired man nodded. "From the borders of Labrynna, your Majesty. An arduous journey, over difficult terrain._

"_I understand." His gesture, quite by accident, seemed to take in his quiver and blood-stained sword in one sweep._

"_I cannot help thinking, however, that you need not nearly rush about so much! Ha!" His unconvincing laugh belied his feelings of anxiety._

_A figure appeared from the darkness behind the throne. "What his Majesty means is that it is quite unnecessary for you to travel. The kingdom needs a hero. The public needs a figurehead to group behind. If another land faces danger, it will be old enough and big enough and strong enough to look after itself."_

_The newcomer was also of muscular build, dressed in blue; and his face was all but obscured due to the rolls of white fabric. An eye, as sharp as a hawk, observed the world from behind the folds. Another eye was daubed on the clothing, a vicious red against the tranquil blue._

_The Hero recoiled. "But what of the business in Termina? I was…"_

"_We cannot find 'Termina' on any of our maps," interrupted the man on the throne. "It was a hallucination, and if it wasn't, it doesn't affect us in any way. We need you here. You have to stop running off. Your home is –"_

_The man who dreamt of Termina turned away in disgust. "My home is on the roads. Do you know how it feels to travel, without a compass, without a map? The exhilaration of discovering another stretch of land?"_

_The enthroned man sighed, and ran a hand through his thinning hair._

"_Give me your sword," he said._

"_What?"_

"_I wished it would not come to this, but there it is. The Master Sword. Give it to me."_

_The Hero slowly drew the sword out of its sheath- for a moment, it shimmered in the dusky redness of the room- and gave it to the man. He looked at it dully, as if expecting it to leap up a for one last show of defiance. It did not._

_It merely lay on the man's lap, bright silver surrounded by the vivid scarlet of his robe, like a knife in a wound._


	3. Chapter 3

The man looked out of his window. On a good day, he could see people moving about in the village far below, but he could never put names to faces. He wondered about their lives, their daily tribulations, the conversations they had with their neighbours… He remembered when he had done likewise, when his soul had swelled with the joy of living, when every face was fresh and new.

When the princess had been alive.

He shook himself out of his reveries, and looked to the west, where Gerudo Desert sparkled like a forbidden jewel. The harsh winds blasted the bleached rock into strange and unusual shapes, and the vibrant purple of the tents served as markers through the thick air. The river that ran through it, white spray reaching a torrent in some areas, flowed down to the placid waters of Lake Hylia, where the Zoras roamed, diving and swimming in the crystal clear waters.

He smiled a humourless smile and went over to the table. Bowls full of various assortments littered it, as with the disturbance of last night he had failed to clear up. One plate still had the remains of a thin gruel, which he now ate, blanching at every mouthful. Sometimes he –

A knife, a thin, black stiletto affair, thudded into the table. Almost before it had stopped vibrating the man had dived past the chairs and performed a well-executed roll as he hit the floor. What had taught him that trick? A Gossip Stone? Never mind.

He ran for the stairs, pausing only to grab something from a case, as a voice- a breezy, childish voice of a boy who would watch wingless flies contort in their death throes- sailed into the room.

"Mister Hee-Ro? Who will save the saviour, Mister Hee-Ro?"

He had reached his room by now. He unbolted his window- which lay at the other end of the house from where the throwing knife had come from- and, in a complicated movement, swung himself around the outside and dropped onto a tree branch.

The voice rose. "Mister Hee-Ro! Running and catching, hiding and seeking Mister Hee-Ro!"

On the edge of hearing- a sense that was now suddenly acute- the man heard a faint '_woomph'_ followed by the crackling of burning timber. A fire. He had encountered his fair share of forest fires over the past few years, but a malicious fire, one like smoking rats out of a barrel, was a new one.

A tinkle of glass. That would be the display cases in the hall going up in ashes. He had a brief jolt at this- there were too many fond memories in those rooms.

He dropped to the ground, where a thick blanket of pine needles broke his fall. Smoke began leaking out of the ground floor window.

The voice was a scream now: "Mister Hee-Ro! Fire burns and scorches, and it fells the attacker, but it seals the wound!"

_It thinks I'm still in the house. _The thought came as a shock, but it had to be true. He could use that, but the smoke was getting in his lungs. The only way was through the forest. He picked a random direction, and started to run.

Running to, he realised, adventure.


End file.
